


Can't Sleep

by NutterZoi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:19:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NutterZoi/pseuds/NutterZoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can't sleep.  Mycroft is a good brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, lady_sarai.
> 
> (Not Brit-picked, sorry. :()

Sherlock stared at his bedroom ceiling. It was late. He had no idea how late it was, because the nanny had taken away the clock on his bedside table, saying that if he kept watching the red numbers while they ticked away the time, he was never going to get any sleep. He thought that was silly, because sleep was hard to get anyway, and at least watching the red numbers had given him something to do. Now he had nothing to do and nothing to watch, except his boring ceiling, while time crawled by.

 

He didn't really understand how time worked. He could read it, of course. On the digital clocks like his with the red numbers, and the analog clocks with the hands on the faces and the second hands that made soft ticking noises as they advanced. But he didn't understand how it _worked_. How hours passed like moments when you were chasing your brother around the garden, but seconds seemed to crawl by when you were bored in your bedroom, staring at the ceiling and thinking about clocks.

 

He wondered why they were called “digital” and “analog.” He would have to look it up. The names seemed arbitrary to him. That word he _had_ looked up, and he liked it. He could see the dictionary page in his head. Arbitrary: 1. Depending on will or discretion; not governed by any fixed rules. 2. Exercised according to one's own will or caprice, and therefore conveying a notion of a tendency to abuse the possession of power. 3. Despotic; absolute in power; bound by no law; harsh and unforbearing; tyrannical. He liked three. It was more dramatic.

 

He wondered If Mycroft knew what arbitrary meant. He knew most of the words Sherlock looked up, but he sometimes pretended he didn't so that Sherlock could tell him. He got out of bed to go ask him. Maybe he'd know about the clocks, too.

 

He tucked his feet into his slippers and went to the bedroom door, opening it and peering out. The hallway was long, dark, and empty. Everything was quiet, and it was obvious that everyone else had gone to bed long ago. He shut his bedroom door behind him and crept as quietly down the hall as he could until he reached Mycroft's door. He eased it opened carefully and shut it just as carefully behind him before turning to ask him about the clocks.

 

His words died in his throat when he saw Mycroft. It hadn't occurred to him that he wouldn't actually be _awake_. He was asleep, with his back to the door, facing the wall. He hadn't even moved when Sherlock had come in. How was he asleep? It took Sherlock ages and ages to fall asleep, and Mycroft went to bed later than him.

 

“Mycroft?” he whispered, just in case he really was awake and hadn't heard the door open. There was no response, and Sherlock moved closer, crossing the bedroom until he was standing at the foot of Mycroft's bed. He really was asleep. _How_?

 

It was too dark for Sherlock to really see him, so he crawled up over the foot board and moved as slowly and carefully as he could until he was lying in front of Mycroft with his own back against the wall so that he could watch him.

 

He looked like Mycroft, but relaxed, with his arm tucked up under his pillow and his mouth a little open. He was breathing slowly and evenly, deeply enough that Sherlock could feel his breath against his cheek. He tried breathing like Mycroft—maybe it would help _him_ fall asleep, too.

 

Mycroft stirred—maybe Sherlock had been breathing so deeply that he had felt his breath, too—and he blinked a few times before his eyes focused on Sherlock. He frowned slightly in confusion. “What are you doing in my bed?”

 

“I was watching you sleep.” Obvious. What _else_ would he have been doing? Mycroft hadn't been awake to talk to him.

 

His frown deepened a little. “You should be in your own bedroom, Sherlock.”

 

He huffed a little. “Bedrooms are arbitrary.”

 

Mycroft's mouth twitched slightly in the way that meant that he was trying very hard not to smile, but that he still wanted to. “Miss Elizabeth will worry when you're not in bed in the morning when she goes to wake you.”

 

“Miss Elizabeth is arbitrary, too.” She _had_ taken his clock, after all. He was sure that was a sign of being a despot.

 

“I see. Is 'arbitrary' our new word tonight?”

 

He nodded. “Yes. I read it in the dictionary this afternoon.”

 

“Mm.” Mycroft yawned and Sherlock watched him. “Is something wrong?” He shook his head, but he was still frowning, and Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, I can't fix it if I don't know what's wrong.”

 

“I can't sleep,” he blurted, and rushed on before Mycroft could speak . “So I wanted to ask you why digital clocks are called digital, and analog clocks are called analog, but when I came in here, you were asleep, and you go to bed later than me. I can't ever fall asleep. My head's too full. How can you fall asleep so easily?”

 

Mycroft blinked. “Why clocks?”

 

“I was thinking about them. Miss Elizabeth took mine.”

 

“I'll ask her to give it back in the morning.”

 

Sherlock nodded, still watching Mycroft and waiting for him to answer his question. Mycroft scrubbed at his face and reached toward Sherlock. “Come here.”

 

Sherlock twisted around and squirmed backward on the bed until he was pressed against Mycroft back to front, and Mycroft could wrap an arm around him like he was an overgrown teddy bear. Once they were settled again, Mycroft spoke. “Listen to how I'm breathing, and try to match. Your body will do that anyway—they're like that.”

 

“But what about the clocks?”

 

“We'll look them up together in the morning. Focus on breathing, Sherlock. Just on breathing.”

 

He closed his eyes, trying to just think about Mycroft breathing behind him and what that felt like, and making his own breathing sound the same. It was hard. Other thoughts kept trying to crowd in. The clocks again. French verb conjugations (etre: suis, es, est, sommes, etes, sont). The piece of music he was practicing. He pushed them all aside, listening to his breathing and Mycroft's, and making them match. He was waiting for Mycroft to tell him what came next. Surely focusing on his breathing wasn't _all_ he had to do?

 

No, he was thinking again. He squeezed his eyes shut a little more tightly and turned his attention back to his breathing.

 

He didn't even notice when he fell asleep.


End file.
